Roses are red, violets are blue;
I give up my ass, to only but a few.
There’s something strange about getting flowers.
It makes my ass crave dick for hours.
Oh, but this puerile little poem is just a metaphor,
The words sheepishly spewing from the mind of a whore.
So, one would be correct, were one to assume,
I don’t give a flying fuck about the flowers that bloom.
I am here to tell you, as one that well-knows,
There’s a hidden meaning behind the little red rose.
Nevermind the violets, they were a cheap cliche,
To help serve as a catalyst for what I have to say.
The reason for all this pedantic circumlocution,
Is none other than the maladroit execution,
Of some mediocre wordsmithing and a painful attempt to rhyme,
So that I might impress upon you the value of my time.
For what I humbly do, is said to be “the oldest profession,”
Though, dear friends, I have a confession:
Whether that’s true, no one really knows,
But one of its symbols, is the little red rose.